Sometimes we just have to say what needs saying to those we love.Posted: July 25, 2009
Tonight we went to a minor league baseball game. I’ve loved baseball for as long as I can remember. I’d watch anyone play it, anywhere.
Tonight’s game was a little crowded, but not terribly so. It ended up being a pitchers duel; it remained 1-0 until late in the contest. I started looking around at the people seated nearby.
My eye caught a man in the next section over. He wore a white t-shirt, with some sort of design and words airbrushed on it. Seeing exactly what the shirt said became an important goal.
You see, I believe that owning anything that was produced by an airbrush – a t shirt, a car tag, a motorcycle helmet, a sign – is the ultimate indicator of a lack of class, style and intelligence. I have yet to see someone wearing an airbrushed t-shirt that failed to validate my opinion.My attention was split between watching the game, enjoying my wife and son, and desperately trying to see what this man had paid someone at an amusement park to spray paint on a shirt for him. It remained split three ways until my wife split my attention in a fourth direction with a wide eyed look at something else in the section next to ours.
I turned and saw an older gentleman, standing during the seventh inning
stretch. He had on a t shirt and a pair of gray cotton shorts. He was a rather portly man. The sight that horrified my wife, and subsequently me, was the mans shorts. Because of his size and the cut of the shorts, his backside had essentially consumed the seam of his shorts. It was gone. His behind had made the equivalent of a bale of cotton disappear.
Now I could be more descriptive, and if you need that, drop me a note and I’ll try to help you out.
My point is this: he was with his wife and a large group of people, all of whom seemed very fond of him. Could no one tell the man that perhaps these shorts were not a good choice for his body type? Didn’t anyone love him enough to let him know that adjusting his shorts might have prevented the spectacle of someone trying unsuccessfully to take a photo of said shorts to use on his blog to graphically represent the horror he really did not adequately paint a picture of in the last paragraph? Obviously not.
I know I can count on my family and friends to speak up when and if I need to know that my shirt and shorts don’t really help each other or me. I urge you to do the dirty work. Say what needs saying. If grandpa shouldn’t have those shorts on, tell him!
Late in the game, I finally saw the design on Mr. Airbrush’s t-shirt. It was a stack of books. They were crossed out, and in that classy script all airbrush”artists” seem to use it said “I don’t need to read”.
Once again, my opinion was validated in spades.
This shirt was on a man sitting at the game with his wife and three children. Again, I believe it was her duty to do the dirty work. “Baby, I think that shirt isn’t the best choice.” Simple. Elegant. Succinct. “For God’s sake you are a role model for our children, could you not flaunt that you choose to be illiterate?”
In the bottom of the 9th, with two outs, the home team tied the game at one with a home run to left center. In the bottom of the 10th, they won the game with a base hit up the middle after the pitcher loaded the bases.
On the way home, all we could talk about was why no one in that man’s family told him his shorts were being consumed by his bottom.
Say what needs saying, folks. It’s for their own good.